


Hellfire

by PrincessPotato



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale and Crowley Met Before The Fall (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Canon - Good Omens (Book & TV Combination), Canon Compliant, Cherub Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Graphic description of Falling, Heaven & hell mentions, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Sad, Scene: The Bookshop Fire (Good Omens), Secret Crush, retelling of the bookshop fire scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 21:43:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20181205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessPotato/pseuds/PrincessPotato
Summary: The day that Crowley's world blazed to its ashes.A retelling of the bookshop fire scene.





	Hellfire

Crowley knows many things; an incommensurable number of things, if he allows himself to go into detail. And it is not only the type of knowledge that one acquires from having lived for over six millennia. Certainly, experience is a vital part in the process of wising up and Crowley, who had witnessed the truth of Heaven, humanity, and Hell, had plenty to spare. But it was not that type of wisdom that was guiding him at that moment, or at least not completely. No, Crowley knew very well that there are certain things that someone gets to understand only after being a demon for as long as him.

“All in a day's work”, he would call it. Unspoken yet basic knowledge: how to fill out the paperwork as to not receive any angry calls; when was a good time to drop by Hell and when it wasn’t; how to avoid reprimands from higher authorities; and why now it was absolutely forbidden to lick the walls. But most importantly, Crowley knew very well that he could trust no one. Of course, being a demon comes with some occupational hazards; it was almost the description of the job that Heaven and Church would persecute you to destroy you. But sadly it wasn’t as simple as that.

No, in Hell walls have ears. Worse yet, demons have ears! Even behind closed doors, there was always someone spying expectantly through the doorknob; waiting for you to make a false step to stab you in the back. Or the leg. Or between the eyes; it doesn’t really matter where exactly. Crowley wasn’t even able to imagine what kind of punishment would Hell prepare for him if they ever get the news that he has been fraternizing with _AND_ helping the enemy for centuries, but he was more than sure it would be something absolutely horrible: a pain too intense to put into words, a torture impossible to bear. Heck, from his point of view, Hell could go so far as to destroy his soul and erase any trace of his existence if they so desired.

That is why it is no surprise for him to hear his doorbell ringing, shortly accompanied by the voices of Hastur and Ligur mockingly chanting his name. No, Anthony J. Crowley is no fool; he foresaw this development. He has known that this moment would come from the very first moment that his agreement with Aziraphale became a reality, and even though it has taken him around two centuries to come up with a means of protecting himself from Hell’s fury, and another hundred years for his angel to finally agree to give him the insurance he required; he was ready when the time to use it arrived.

His hands embrace the thermos as a castaway man clings to the only wood plank available in an effort to endure the onslaught of the sea. He knows that with that weapon his chances of getting out of that storm, although not necessarily extremely high, are much greater than without it. Thus, he swallows his nervousness and gets into action hurriedly, hoping for the best.

Crowley is methodical, witty and a fast thinker. It doesn’t take him long to get back into the Bentley, with Ligur gone forever, and Hastur trapped for hopefully long enough to find a home between the stars with his angel, too far away to ever be found, or at least for someone to bother looking for them when a war (THE war) is approaching. His plan has gone perfectly, and now that no one is chasing him he has enough time to persuade Aziraphale to go to Alpha Centauri with him or, in the worst case, drag him there before things get (more) out of control on Earth.

"A piece of cake", as his angel would say. But something is wrong and a part deep inside Crowley can sense it; even if he doesn’t dare to think about that. His hands move faster than his thoughts and soon his phone is returning the call to Aziraphale. No one answers, which is extraordinarily strange for the angel, but it sounds like the other side of the line is busy, and Crowley tries to relax.

“It’s okay," he thinks, throwing the device away; “it means that he is still at the bookshop," he reasons. But he can’t stop himself from pushing the Bentley faster and faster through the busy streets of London.

He sees the smoke before anything else. A grey line rising from the ground and turning everything around it darker and dustier. Crowley can see it as clearly as… whatever thing is clear, even with his sunglasses on. It is like a bad omen hanging from the sky, a signal sent by God herself to warn him not to go ahead. But the Almighty should know by this time that the demon isn’t good at listening to her anyway. Crowley presses the accelerator hard and squeezes the steering wheel, dodging vehicles and pedestrians alike on his way.

The second thing he sees, or rather hears, are the fire trucks parked in the street of Aziraphale’s bookstore. Their sirens echo loudly, warning both drivers and passersby of the danger around; and the sound seems to Crowley more horrible than the celestial trumpets that have been announcing the end of everything since that morning. But he keeps driving without thinking much about it, it is probably another house that is burning; surely it does not mean anything that the firefighters are parked right in the corner where Aziraphale’s bookstore is located. Everything is okay, _Aziraphale is okay,_ Crowley repeats to himself pursing his lips and getting out of the Bentley hastily; but he is not prepared for what awaits outside.

Seconds seem to become into hours. In front of him, Aziraphale’s beloved bookstore is burning to its foundations, and Crowley has the impression of living a nightmare. Flames peek out the windows licking the wood of their frames, dancing cruelly as if destruction were a cause for celebration.

Crowley knows how merciless fire can be. He has seen what it can do in Hell, he has witnessed it destroying everything in its path, corrupting every last soul, annihilating and torturing its victims. And now, fed with the sheets of the books that his angel so much appreciates, it seems to rise as the most horrendous of all beasts. His chest is squeezed, taking his breath away and shaking his soul. Suddenly, Crowley feels that he does not have the energy to continue moving, or even to stand still while facing that horrible spectacle. But he has to keep going, he needs to go in there, he must save his angel as he has been doing for centuries. _Aziraphale needs him_, and he is not going to fail him.

“Are you the owner of this establishment?” Someone asks him. A firefighter.

And even though Crowley can understand that the confident way in which he forces himself to walk towards the burning building, relaxed yet hurriedly, has provoked that question; he has no time for such nonsense. In fact, he doesn’t have even a single second to entertain on that stupid conversation. And he is angry. He is so ridiculously angry at so many things on that exact same moment that he cannot see clearly.

However, he still takes a moment to shout, “do I look like I run a bookshop?” while walking backwards. It barely takes him a few seconds to respond, but it is long enough for Crowley to take the burning building out of his field of vision and calm his nerves a little bit.

An instinct that he does not recognize begs him to stop moving, terrified by what he can find behind those doors. But, yet again he forces himself to walk ahead and ignore what he has been feeling since the moment he left his apartment. Most likely all this was initiated by some kind of domestic accident, which is the biggest cause of injuries and disasters (Crowley himself presented the figures at one of Hell’s quarterly meetings). Besides, it is absolutely ridiculous to even think that normal fire can do anything to his angel, Aziraphale is probably inside there freaking out, running from side to side trying to save his books from the attack of the fire, too upset and worried to miracle himself out of this situation. Crowley can even imagine the things that he must be saying as he burns his fingertips, trying to put out the fire with blows.

But it is okay because Crowley is there now, and he can miracle everything back to normal. Heck, he can even miracle the bookstore so that it appears in outer space, with his angel and himself inside; and then all would be alright. So, against any better judgement, he ignores his forebodings as he ignores the fireman's warning shouts; and with a snap of his fingers he disappears all distractions finally pushing the doors open.

Inside the building chaos reigns. Flames rise from the floor to the ceiling, devouring bite by bite the fine wood shelves. Parts of the roof have collapsed on the previously neat floor surface, staining it with ashes and debris. Books, tables, armchairs, curtains and the phonograph that Crowley bought him decades ago are blazing. The smoke floods the entire instance, making it difficult to see or breathe; not like Crowley needs to breathe though.

“Aziraphale!” He shouts, desperately trying to find his angel. His eyes dance back and forth attempting to see beyond the grey smoke as he moves through the store, but no one answers him. And no one appears running from side to side, carrying mountains of strange and "precious" books. In fact, everything feels too quiet to be a building on the brink of destruction, almost as if the devastation had already been there a long time ago instead of hovering over his angel's treasures as the worst of evils.

“Aziraphale!” He insists, waltzing through that fiery inferno. But nothing moves or even makes a sound. Only the murmur of the flames and the cries of pain of everything agonizing at their feet respond to him. Tongues of fire threaten to lick his feet if he gets closer, but Crowley ignores them and continues searching. The smoke has knotted his throat, hindering every word more and more until his lips are tempted to tremble. Around him the structure creaks. A shower of ashes and fragments of burnt book sheets begins to rain; and outside the thunders rumble over the firmament, as if God’s wrath has unleashed yet again.

Crowley clenches his fists, starting to spin frantically. “Aziraphale, you idiot!”, he keeps trying to find him. He does not want to believe it.

“For God's-- for Satan's-- Ah! For somebody's sake where are you?!” He shouts, desperately attempting to find what he knows is no longer there. But, again only the mayhem hears his screams, curses, and questions. He feels a worrisome emptiness around him that stirs his stomach and further knots his throat. Suddenly the world has become indescribably cold, and Crowley feels a chill run down his back, making him shiver even inside that bonfire.

“I can’t find you!” He screams but it sounds much closer to a plea for there is more truth in that statement than Crowley wants to acknowledge.

After six thousand years knowing Aziraphale, the demon had become accustomed to the angel. Not only Crowley knew his angel's face by heart: the beautiful and heavenly blue of his eyes, the softness of his gaze, his easy and gentle smile; or had memorized the bright colors of his aura; but, more importantly, knew the sensations. that his existence left in the world. In other words, after centuries of first loitering and then both accompanying and protecting Aziraphale, Crowley had become so used to him that he could sense his presence even from far apart.

This, of course, is not a skill that only Crowley possesses. Angels and demons alike have a wide range of qualities that go far beyond the six human senses; therefore, it is not uncommon for both allies and enemies to be able to perceive each other. Now, of course, a level of closeness is needed to recognize to whom this or that presence belongs to, and some kind of special connection to be able to perceive such things from a distance. But Crowley could. Despite Aziraphale's ups and downs regarding their friendship, Crowley could sense him even miles away.

If someone had asked him what was all that about, even though he had made sure that nobody found out about it, not even Aziraphale himself; he would have said that he formed (and forced) that link for practical reasons. After all, without detracting from all the virtues of the angel, he was quite innocent for not saying gullible and sometimes extremely clumsy. So, having a successful agreement with Aziraphale required him to perform as a babysitter from time to time and thus, sensing whether the angel was safe or not made his job much easier. A nice and simple lie protected by enough truths to go unnoticed, but a lie after all.

In reality, Crowley was the one that needed that link. Some nights the demon was only able to close his eyes and sleep for a few hours if he clung to Aziraphale's presence. The soft and luminous mark that his existence radiated in the world removed all the sorrows, fear and pain of the devil like a nightlight. Feeling Aziraphale's presence was like a gentle touch on his shoulders, a comforting warmth inside his chest. Knowing that Aziraphale existed, that his angel lived and was real was to Crowley as an oasis in a desert, a guide through the gloom of a hell to which he never felt he should belong, a cure for the memories that reminded him of a heaven that rejected him, a refuge to reach when all his other homes no longer felt welcoming.

That is why he knew before truly knowing. That is why he sensed that something had gone horribly wrong from the very first second that he got inside the Bentley. And although he had done his best to ignore it, hoping for the best until the last instant, the truth was there in front of his eyes, firing all the alarms inside him. He cannot find Aziraphale, nor hear his voice, nor even sense him even standing in his house; and that can only mean one single thing.

All the sudden, the void that floods Crowley’s senses threaten to tear him apart.

Crowley falls. He falls, but this time it is not to a sulfur pool, not even to the wet floor after being thrown away for the firemen's water jet. He falls and drowns into the overwhelming pain he has been ignoring from several streets ago. A deafening ache that he had not felt before.

And Crowley knows a lot about pain.

He knows about betrayals and disappointments. He has felt in his heart the devastation of seeing how everything you believed in breaks before your eyes. He has seen firsthand how doubts can erode a mind and how discontent poisons even the purest of souls. And he also has felt the slap of the indifference of a supposedly loving mother, the tormenting injustice of seeing humanity be judged instead of blindly loved, the cries of agony of a people succumbing to the plagues for the mistakes of their leader, of innocent children drowning, and of cities disappearing between fire and brimstone.

More importantly, Crowley knows about the heartbreaking cruelty behind Her rejection, the intense pain of crashing into the depths of the earth and plunging into a world of fire, the piercing agony of a pair of wings burning to black, and the silent torture of millennia of not belonging anywhere.

And even more, Crowley thought he had discovered hundreds of years ago what it meant to lose Aziraphale: the image of his indignant figure walking away steadily, decades of a telephone without ringing, a constant review of the newspaper without finding any clue to a meeting, and the weight of loneliness on his shoulders. The months, years and decades of absolute silence always dance in the back of his memory as a reminder of the importance of being cautious with his angel, of giving him space and time, of not going too fast. Hell, Crowley even knew the agony it was to have his angel so close, embedded in the depths of his heart, and so far at the same time.

And yet, he had been wrong all this time: none of those experiences, not even the seemingly endless separation with Aziraphale; could be compared to losing his angel forever. No, the pain that invades him at this moment is much greater than any other that he has ever suffered, and it clouds any other emotion and erases all his thoughts.

“You’ve gone,” Crowley mutters, and the truth tastes like poison in his mouth. Around him, the hellfire purrs softly, as if it had not committed the worst sin imaginable. “Somebody killed my best friend,” he accuses; deliberately omitting the most horrible part of that whole story.

Anger burns in Crowley's veins, poisoning him. He hates the emptiness that covers everything next to him, he hates the painful hammering that torments his heart, he hates the monsters that took away his angel; but, above all, he hates himself more than anything in the world.

_Aziraphale is gone._

Crowley’s love, home, and best friend is gone. Killed by a stranger in who knows which horrible and sadistic way. And Crowley was not there when it happened. He ignored his call for help in the worst of the moments, too busy saving his own skin. After centuries of acting as his knight in shining armor and protecting him of all kinds of human antics, the safety of his angel had never crossed his mind. And the most dreadful part, the most horrid of all the details, was that Crowley should have expected it.

Having witnessed what Heaven and Hell could do, he should have assumed that not all the punishment would fall on him. Or maybe it was indeed all about him. Perhaps this was Hell's way of punishing him: taking away the most precious thing in Crowley’s life and then delighting themselves in his pain. Attacking his weakest point when distracted, hurting him in such a way that he could never heal any scar. Maybe even God Herself has encouraged this tragedy, not content with having taken everything from him once.

“Bastards,” he curses seeing red, “all of you”. All who dared to lay a finger on his angel and everyone who was a part of his demise. Including Crowley himself.

Tears fall down the face of the devil. Sadness overflows him and as much as he tries to avoid it, his golden eyes flood his cheeks. He can sense his soul falling apart inside him, unable to bear living in a world where Aziraphale does not exist. A world where no one would get over-excited about crepes, a world without tickety-boos, or dines at the Ritz, and where sacred weapons won’t be misplaced. And most definitely a world where no one would ever be happy to see Crowley around.

His stomach feels scrambled and his chest tight with the sole idea. Guiltiness mixes with the helplessness of the sudden loss, shaking Crowley from head to toe and drowning him in a torment that numbs every sense and thought. And it's just in that instant when he suddenly remembers that his last words for Aziraphale, apart from his rushed dismissal, was a lie created to hurt him. It hurts incredibly to think about it. Crowley's heart bleeds just by thinking that his angel spent his last moments convinced that he wouldn't mind his death, too busy flying towards Alpha Centauri to even spare a thought on him.

Crowley clenches his teeth and then his lips, trembling under the mass of emotions that overwhelm him. He lifts his glasses off the floor in an attempt to shield himself from his own feelings behind them, but it is useless: they are as broken as his heart at that moment. He walks towards the exit undone and drenched. His feet move lightly, ready to flee from that nightmare; but his soul feels heavy and tired. It seems to understand before his body that there is no distance in that world that can take him away from that suffering.

Why, he questions, why it had to be like this? Why did it have to be his angel and not him? He asks to himself, pressing hard the book that he has been brought as a souvenir before storming inside the Bentley.

But it makes no sense to ask himself such things because, despite all the things Crowley knows, there are many more that he doesn't understand or simply ignore. For instance:

Why humans must be tested when she already had the answer to your questions?

Or why can’t everyone in Heaven be equal?

Why does God’s plan has to be ineffable for all the rest?

And, more importantly, _why archangels can’t talk with the pretty cherubs that guard the Eden?_

Even worse, there are so many other things that Crowley would never be able to discover: he would never know what it is like to kiss Aziraphale’s soft lips; he will not get to experience what it is to run away from all the problems alongside his soulmate; nor will he know how warm his angel's hand is between his; or how cozy his hugs must have been. Crowley will never know what would have been like to be on the same side or even on their own side; nor he would ever be able to know what would have been his angel’s reaction to a love confession.

_Would he have reciprocated his feelings?_

_Would he have run away again?_

Crowley curses again and bites his lips, anxious to cloud his mind with alcohol and ignore the pain for the few hours that the world had left. After all none of those questions matter anymore, not after his angel death.

Aziraphale is gone forever

And Crowley’s world has ended with him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!!
> 
> This is my first time writing a fanfic on my second language so, if you see that something is grammatically incorrect, please point it out to me (:
> 
> And yes, in my hc Aziraphale used to be a cherub!!


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